


I hold with those who favor fire

by anonymousAlchemist, bluemoodblue



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, but you do need taz!, hunger games and taz mashup lets GO, you dont need to know about the hunger games to read this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-30 05:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12646911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousAlchemist/pseuds/anonymousAlchemist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemoodblue/pseuds/bluemoodblue
Summary: The District Twelve Tributes are strange this year. The girl, a whipcord sharp, gap-toothed smiler with a spine made of iron. The boy, a brick shithouse of a teenager who stands like nothing has ever hurt him.Not all the worlds that the Starblaster lands on are kind.





	1. Tributes

**Author's Note:**

> Some say the world will end in fire,  
> Some say in ice.  
> From what I’ve tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favor fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice.  
> \- Robert Frost

The District Twelve tributes unnerve Aevy. She had watched the post-Reaping broadcast, hands clasped into fists to keep them from trembling. She wasn't supposed to be scared. Better her than Linna, Hyacinth. Better her than her younger sister, Mina. 

 

So she had sat down on the couch with her family and watched the broadcasts, acutely aware that in a few hours she would be on the train to the Capitol. 

 

"Can we just have a normal afternoon?" she had asked her family. "Please?" Her father had embraced her and said, "Okay," as if he could not think of anything else to say. 

 

District Twelve is always the last broadcast. So by the time they aired, Aevy had already seen the flash-bright smiles of the first, second, third districts, the volunteers who had been trained their entire lives for this moment. She had seen her own face, blank until she smiled at the very end of her broadcast, hands hidden in her pockets. Good. She looks like she doesn't care. The rest of the tributes are a blur, one after another, crying children, swaggering teens. 

 

Then the District Twelve tributes. First, the announcer pulls out the name of a preteen girl, who bursts into tears. 

 

Then, a clear cheerful voice from the crowd, causing heads to turn, rippling out from the center of the crowd. 

 

"I volunteer as tribute!" 

 

A long-limbed older teenager, who looks to be on the cusp of adulthood, just barely still in the reaping, clambers onto stage. She has one of those fancy capitol haircuts, and despite being covered in smudges of ash, she carries herself like a queen. 

 

"I'm Lup," she says, smiling gap-toothed at the camera. "No last name." 

 

The announcer looks flustered. The preteen girl runs off the makeshift stage. The announcer tries to get the ceremony back on track, except before she can speak, another voice. 

 

"I also volunteer!" 

 

A  _ brick shithouse _ of a man steps on stage. Just like the girl, he looks barely eligible, and Aevy thinks that they're both idiots for volunteering. He's grinning like he thinks he's invulnerable. 

 

He clasps hands with the girl-Tribute, and throws a comfortable arm around her. The announcer looks nonplussed. The man turns to her and holds out a hand to shake. 

 

"Magnus Burnsides," he says. "I'm going to win this thing." 

 

The girl punches him in the stomach. He flinches, laughs. 

 

Aevy feels sick. 

 

# 

 

Perce hates the games. Mentoring is bullshit. Year after year, he gets on the  _ fucking  _ train and talks to two  _ fucking  _ kids and the kids sometimes weep and sometimes rage and sometimes they stay silent and sometimes they are filled with false bravado. Then they die. An he goes home and four years later he does it all over again. 

 

This year, it's false bravado. 

 

The kids are sprawled across the bench across from him. The boy is constructing the largest sandwich he's seen anyone make from the spread in front of him. They always do a nice turnout. Impresses the kids they're gonna kill. 

 

The kids don't seem nervous at all. Perce squints at them. 

 

The girl's got a runner's build, constructed for agility and not strength. An impractical haircut, something like you'd see from the kids in district one. She's lovely, Perce thinks dispassionately. That'll get her some sponsors, even if she turns out not to have a personality. Straight shoulders. They could clean her up, make her look something ethereal, something fay. That might be the way to take it. 

 

The boy, on the other hand, looks like a brawler. He's got the remnants of a bruise over his left eye, a chipped tooth, a couple of scars. He's huge — growth spurt must have hit him like a truck. Sometimes strength is enough, Perce thinks. Two games ago, kid from District 9 won cause he ripped a man's head from his torso. It had made for excellent television. Perce watches the boy in front of him try to fit the sandwich he made into his mouth. Okay, so maybe a dumbass. 

 

"You done checkin' us out, or what?" The girl picks up a cookie, crunches it between her teeth. 

"How much combat training you two got?" Perce says. He doesn't see the point of beating around the bush. 

 

"Enough to beat your ass," the girl says, good-naturedly. Okay. So she's one of those kids.  

 

"Arrogance will get you killed, girlie," Perce says. She grins at him, brushes crumbs off her shirt. 

"S'long as one of us lives, it doesn't matter." She talks about her hypothetical death like certainty.

"I'm real good with an axe," the boy says, swallowing the bite of his sandwich. "They call me 'The Hammer' back home." 

"Nobody calls you that, dumbass," the girl says. 

"They could!" 

"We're not going to, babe." 

 

"You two a couple?" Perce asks, bluntly. The kids stare at him for a moment, and burst out laughing. 

 

"I'm serious," Perce says. "If you want sponsors, everyone loves a love story. Especially a tragic one." 

"Yeah, me and Maggie would be  _ real  _ tragic," the girl says, giggling. 

"An absolute disaster," the boy says, head in his hands, shoulders shaking with mirth. 

"Barold, I'm sorry, I'm leaving you for this perfect idiot," the girl says to some invisible third person. “I’ve been in love with him and his muscles since the day we met.” The boy laughs harder. 

 

They look like they don't care.

 

Perce slams a hand on the table. 

 

"Listen to me, you imbeciles," Perce says. "This is serious. If you want to have a chance of one of you going back home, if you want to see your families again, you're going to have to start taking this  _ fucking  _ seriously. So stop bullshitting me, stop the banter, and let me. Fucking. Help. You." 

 

The kids stare at him like he’s some particularly feral dog. Perce scowls at them.  

 

His worst quality, Perce thinks to himself, is that he can't stop putting effort into this. If he could just stop  _ giving a shit _ , this would be easy. Two decades ago he killed eight kids in a rockslide. Where’d that kid go, he thinks. The one who thought about all this like a game. 

 

The kids are still staring at him. Fuck. Perce lost his temper again. The boy puts down his sandwich. The girl leans forward, and her eyes are all flint. He remembers the other kids, he remembers being the one on that side of the train car. He had been scared shitless. These kids, they put up a good front, but he can see the edges of their caring. 

 

If he let himself, he could like these two, he thinks to himself. Too bad they're probably going to be offed on the first day. They're the type to go for the Cornucopia. He does not allow himself to hope. 

 

"You're right. So tell us about the games, old man,"Lup says. 

"Old!" Perce says. "I'm thirty-four, you ingrate." 

"And I'm seventy-seven!" Magnus says.

"Sure you are, kid," Perce snorts. Magnus can't be more than seventeen. "Okay. So heres how we're going to run this." 

 

# 

 

Taako and Lucretia come back late, dressed in the strangest clothes the crew has seen in a couple of cycles. All glow and glitter, sharp angles and sinuous curves. They settle on the body like a dream, sharp contrast to the exhaustion painting the pair’s faces. 

 

Team meeting takes place immediately. 

 

“What’d you find?” Magnus asks, as Lucretia collapses into one of the meeting room chairs. 

“Do you want the good news, or the bad news, first?” she says, scrubbing her face with her hands. 

“Good, and then bad,” Lup says, handing her and Taako mugs of hot tea, before sitting down across from them. 

“Good news, we found out where the light landed. Bad news, someone else ganked it before we did,” Taako says, sprawling in his chair bonelessly. 

“They’re using it to power part of their knock-off  _ Battle Royale  _ tournament,” Lucretia explains. “It’s going to be in the ‘arena.’ There’s no way we can get it without being  _ in  _ the arena. And they’re not letting anyone in, now that it’s set up.” 

“So we should sneak in by pretending to be...contestants,” Merle says, brow furrowed.

“They call them tributes,” Lucretia says. “It’s basically a bloodbath. And you can’t go, Merle, it’s only teenagers. They kill  _ kids. _ ” 

 

She outlines the scenario. Every four years, twenty-four teenage tributes from twelve districts are chosen for a heavily publicized deathmatch. They rip each other apart in the arena, and one goes home the victor, heavily traumatized but alive. Lucretia and Taako had watched the footage of past contestants brutalizing each other, hour after hour of kids chasing, hunting, killing, all overlaid with a bubbly commentator’s voice breaking down the mechanics of governmentally-sanctioned murder. 

 

Not all the worlds they land on are kind. 

 

Lucretia’s voice is shaking with anger, by the time she’s done speaking. Merle puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. Lup leans forward. 

 

“I’ll go,” Lup says. “Better us than some poor kid who’d  _ actually  _ die.” 

“Me too,” Magnus says firmly. “I’m coming with you.” 

 

“Physical activity? Grossaroni,” Taako says, wrinkling his nose. He’s ripping apart a piece of paper with his fingers into smaller and smaller pieces. His hands are not shaking. “Taako’s sitting this one out.” 

 

Lup flicks her brother’s hair. 

“Lazy,” she says, but doesn’t challenge his refusal. 

 

Davenport shakes his head. 

 

“Taako’s right. Him and Lucretia are more valuable right now in the Citadel, as long as they don’t blow their covers. Merle, you’re joining them. Barry’s on comms duty and gaining access to Panem’s network. Lup, Magnus, and I are going to infiltrate the games.” 

 

“Cap’nport, you’re like a real adult,” Magnus says. 

Davenport raises an eyebrow. “Illusion mage. Top of my class.” 

“Fair enough,” Magnus concedes.

 

# 

 

Cella Diamond swirls into work in a cloud of glittergauze. It’s the new  _ thing _ , the effervescent swoops of fabric so thin as to be nonexistent, bouncing and sparkling around her. It adds a certain flair to her outfit, she thinks. It’s terribly impractical for work, though, and she unhooks the flounce from her shoulders. 

 

“That looked marvelous on you,” Tee says, as Cella hangs the jacket up on the back of a chair. Cella beams. 

 

“Aw, thanks, honey,” she says. Tee smiles at her, the dear. Tee’s new — fresh out of the academy, pretty bone structure, good sense of style. He’s just a kid, but he’s going to be the next big thing in a few years, Cella can tell — as long as Tee keeps up the good work. He’s wearing a vintage glamour-glass facemask over his mouth and nose. The exaggerated bounce of the cartoonesque facial features mimicking his actual expressions, coupled with his petal-pink dress, is absolutely charming. 

 

“We’re all ready here, Cee,” Zemma says, putting the last brush out at their workstation. “The tributes can come in whenever they like, the poor underdressed dolls.” 

 

“Thank you Zemmy,” Cella says. She’s worked with Zemma for years. They have it down to a science. Zemma’s wearing a new outfit – everything snakeskin, it’s absolutely gorgeous. “I’ll just call Perce, and we’ll get right to it.” 

 

She sashays over to the console built into the wall of the wardrobe room, pressing the button for Perce’s personal phone. 

 

“Perce-y! Bring your boy and girl down, honey, we’re ready to make them beautiful,” she says. 

“Right, Cella, we’ll be down in five,” Perce says. Full names. So professional, that Perce. No fun at all. She hangs up the phone with a sigh, and turns on her heel to face Tee, who is arranging the lip glosses. Cella’s got five minutes to kill, and every moment is a teaching opportunity. 

 

“Now, District Twelve is nearly always a challenge,” she instructs Tee. “First, the Tributes are a bit of a crapshoot. And most of them haven’t even  _ thought  _ about fashion before. And the aesthetic! So hard. Mines, coal, what else is there? So we’re going to have to do our extra-best, and put our highest heel forward, okay? We’ve got to give our kids the best shot in the games.” 

 

“You got it, Cee,” Tee says. Cella beams. 

 

The door slides open, and two teenagers and shepherded in by Perce. The teenagers are, well, well they’re not in perfect condition, but that’s what the skin treatments, the microsurgeries, the laser therapies, that’s what all of that is for. 

 

Cella gives them a quick glance-over. Fighters, both of them. Boy’s got some scars and some unfortunate tan lines, but he’s whole and solid, with a nice open smile, a friendly face. Girl’s got burn scars all up and down her arms — little pockmarks and shiny patches — along with some little discolorations and a truly unfortunate haircut,  _ so  _ last season, but that’s all fixable and she’s an absolute knockout, otherwise. 

 

“You’re in better shape than the last tributes we got, lovelies,” Cee says. “Ooh, we’re going to have so much fun.” She bounces over and kisses them both on the cheek and gives the girl a warm hug – get them comfy from the start, no need for unfamiliarity, that’s Celia Diamond’s motto. The girl hugs her back. Not too skittish, this pair. 

 

“I’m Cella Diamond, but call me Cee — I’m your stylist, loves, and the two of you are?” 

“Lup,” the girl says, with a friendly nod.  

“Magnus Burnsides, nice to meet you!” the boy says. 

“And you as well, honey,” Cella says, “okay, now let us have a good look at you before we send you off for the machines to work their magic. This is Zemma and Tee, and they’re here to help me help you.” Cella gestures at Zemma and Tee, who at her signal, dart forward to examine the tributes.  

 

“You’re an absolute stunner, doll,” Zemma says, carding a hand through the girl’s hair and peering at her face. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, even before you knock ‘em dead.” 

 

Tee, on the other hand, struts up to the boy and pulls him down to his level. The boy obliges. Tee stares at his face, and his mask breaks into a huge smirk. 

 

“You’re a brute!” Tee says gleefully.

“I’m perfect!” the boy says, indignant. 

“I mean it in a good way, darling, we’re going to make you very intimidating,” Tee says, patting him on the cheek. “Too bad you’re clean-shaven, honey. Some facial hair would help your aesthetic.” 

“Fuck you!” the boy says, but he’s smiling back. 

“And such a  _ mouth  _ on you,” Tee giggles. “What  _ are  _ they teaching you in your district?” 

“Uhhh…..mining,” the boy says. Hm, well, Cella wasn’t expecting her tributes to be intellectual rockstars. At least they’re pretty. 

 

“Honey, don’t flirt with the tributes,” she says. 

“Sorry Cee,” Tee says sheepishly. 

 

Her assistants flit around the tributes, and Cella spares a glance for Perce. He’s watching them. He must like the kids. Cee’s known Perce for years, and he always gets attached. 

 

Cella watches as Tee gives Lup a comforting squeeze on the shoulder as he inspects her face. He’s a natural, Cee thinks smugly. It’ll be awful fun seeing where the kid ends up. She turns her attention back to the tributes. 

 

The girl’s ethereal, the boy is handsome. Cella can work with that. She has just the thing. She’s gonna make them  _ shine.  _

 

#

 

Tee takes off his facemask as soon as he ushers Magnus into the small room with the laser treatment machinery. He pulls a face and scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand, relieved to have the mask off. He’s going to have to be wearing it a lot now, with his sister in the Capitol. He’s not looking forward to it. 

 

Magnus’s shoulders relax in relief, outside of the curious eyes of the other stylists and Perce. The room is private, with a single entrance and no windows. The machinery takes up most of the far side of the space, culminating in a tube shaped-contraption. There’s an examination table, and a few chairs. 

 

“It’s good to see you, Taako,” Magnus says, uncomplicated relief in his voice. “I didn’t know I would see you here.” He reaches for Taako’s shoulder, meaning to pull his friend into a hug. 

 

Taako slaps his hand away. Magnus draws back, stung. Taako grimaces, apologetic, but keeps a careful three steps in between them. 

 

“Strip,” Taako says brusquely. “Gotta get you prepped, thug. There are cameras everywhere, so we can talk, but don’t look up, and don’t touch me. Can’t look too familiar – cha’boy’s gotta keep his cover up, you dig?” 

“Gotcha,” Magnus says, sitting back. He begins to unlace his boots. Taako watches him with a critical eye for a moment, cataloguing the scrapes, the bruises that Magnus has acquired over the last month. He’s brawnier. District Twelve is mostly physical labor. 

 

“You good, homeslice?” Taako asks, voice light and crisp as he effortlessly turns knobs and dials on the tube. 

“Aw, were you  _ worried  _ about me?” Magnus says, glancing at Taako, smiling. Taako rolls his eyes. 

“Of course not! Why would I be worried? Just get your undies off, and get in the tube, doofus.” 

“Why?” Magnus complies, stepping into the chamber even as he asks. Taako closes the chamber. 

“Don't worry about it,” he says, and flips the switch. 

 

A flicker of light. Magnus swears. Loud humming that pulses once, twice, and then shudders to a stop. Taako turns the machine off and swings the door open. Magnus steps out, scratching his neck. 

 

“No, seriously, what was that for?” Magnus asks, crossing his arms. 

“Dermal regenerator type deal,” Taako explains. “They want you to look pretty for the cameras, before they kill ya.” 

 

Magnus thinks for a second. All his aches and pains, all his bruises, the abrasions, all of that is gone. He feels...good. Better than he has in ages. 

 

“That’s pretty fucked up,” he says. Taako snorts. He hands Magnus his clothing. Magnus takes it from him. Taako stares at his friend. Smooth skin, no facial hair, naked as the day he was born. 

 

“Seven hells, but you look young,” Taako says. Magnus smiles again. Taako’s one to talk. He’s looked barely legal, ever since Magnus has met him. 

“I’ll say hi to Lup for you,” Magnus says, and puts on his pants. 

 

# 

 

The door lock beeping always makes Lucretia tense. She knows, intellectually, that there are only two people who have access to this apartment. Her, and Taako. But she can’t help but freeze for a moment, every time she hears the cheerful ding that lets her know someone is coming in. Lucretia hates undercover work. She had spent seven hours at the Gamemakers facilities today, 

 

Taako slides the door shut behind him. 

 

“It’s just me, Luce,” he says, giving her a little wave. Taako’s in his work clothes, the shimmery pink dress, the platform heels that have glittering soles. His hair is done up in an elaborate updo, lots of hot-pink extensions woven in. He’s wearing the glamourglass that he started using after the tributes were announced. It turns the bottom half of his face into a cartoonish simulacrum of himself. It unnerves Lucretia. 

 

“You’re back early,” Lucretia says, sitting up. Taako unclips his mask and tosses it on the kitchen table. A sort of tension seeps out of him, as he does so. He walks over to her, shedding jacket and shoes as he does so. 

“Cee sent me home,” Taako says. “Think she thought I looked tired or somethin’. Cha’boy ain’t complainin’.” 

 

He does look tired. Beneath the makeup, the glitz and glimmer, there’s something of a hollow cast to his face, exhaustion made tangible. Lucretia suspects that she must look much the same. The Gamemakers sent her home early, too — a half day, so everyone would be able to watch the Tributes arrive. She pats the space next to her on their long lozenge of a couch. It’s a very nice apartment. 

 

“It’s starting soon,” she says. Taako sits down heavily next to her. She offers him a pillow. He takes it. 

 

On the screen in front of them, Antony Crash beams at the camera, pacing on a platform poised above the main throughfare of the Capitol. The streets are lit up, there are crowds on either side of the road, excitement rolling off of them like heat. 

 

“— and in ju-u-ust a few moments, we’re going to see the first of the tributes coming down City Circle, good luck for us, we’ve got  _ prime seats _ to watch the show, and you’re right here with us — stay glittering, Panem, we’ll be right back.” 

 

Crash winks, and the scene cuts to a commercial for a new type of bodywash. It apparently changes scents throughout the day. 

 

“I saw Maggie and Lulu today,” Taako says. “ _ Finally,  _ sheesh.” 

“Were they alright?” Lucretia asks, turning away from the screen. Taako gets up and goes over to the kitchen. 

“They’re fine. Little banged up, not nothin’ we couldn’t fix with a regen. But I still can’t get over Magnus without a beard,” Taako says, still not facing her. “Like who even is that? The ghost of Magnus past? Magnus’s good twin? Angus, son of Magnus?” 

“He looks very handsome, though,” Lucretia says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that cleaned up.” 

“He’s  _ handsome, _ ” Taako says, mimicking her. He walks back, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. “Oh my gods, you think he’s cute.” 

“And if you ever tell anyone, I’ll murder you in your sleep,” Lucretia says calmly, blush tinting her cheeks. “How do you think they’re going to do?” 

Taako scoffs. “As if any of these kiddies have a chance against them.” He passes Lucretia a glass, and sits down again with the full bottle of wine. 

 

The commercial ends, Crash popping back on the screen. 

 

“And oh my stars, will you look at that. District one, right out the gate — let’s take a closer look!” 

 

The video feed switches to the Tributes riding in their chariots, Crash’s speech turning to voiceover. Lucretia and Taako pass the bottle between them as pair after pair of teenagers wave and smile their way down the road. Some are better actors than others. 

 

Crash has something to say about each pair, by turns teasing and flattering. The teenagers are resplendent, in their costumes. District One, dressed like glowing gods, District four’s scandalously skimpy swimsuits and scales, District six, dressed for speed. On and on, one after another. The crowd cheers, it boos, it laughs. 

 

Lucretia and Taako make a hefty dent in the wine. All these kids are going to die, probably. 

 

At the very end of the train: District Twelve’s chariot emerges. 

 

“— andddd our last District, Twelve, we’ve got our tributes in genuine Cella Diamond creations, oh, just look at that black glitter — all that glitters is not coal, ay?” Crash laughs. 

 

Magnus and Lup are resplendent, wrapped in midnight-black fabric that glitters like ice when they move. Magnus is waving madly. Lup’s new haircut  — a bouncy swish of red that resembles a lick of flame – swirls in the wind. They look sharp, careless, nothing like most of the tributes, mostly backwater kids unnerved by the Capitol’s excess. 

 

Lucretia watches Lup whisper something to Magnus. He smiles and nods, and she nods back. And then Magnus turns to Lup and kisses her square on the mouth, cupping her face with his hand. She leans into the kiss, but Lucretia can see the way Lup’s shoulders are shaking with suppressed mirth. 

 

“Hachi-machi!” Taako says, jolting upright from his slouch. “What the fuck!” 

“Everyone loves a love story,” Lucretia says softly, watching Lup raise her hand slowly. Lucretia wonders what Lup is planning. 

 

The camera pans in on Lup. She’s grinning, gap-teeth perfectly framed by cherry-red lipstick. Her hand, outstretched. It’s a gesture she stole from a comic book, Lucretia knows. 

 

Lup snaps her fingers. Her dress and Magnus’s suit are suddenly wreathed in orange flame, flickering coronas of fire. 

 

The crowd  _ screams.  _

 

Magnus and Lup raise their joined hands, and the crowd surges with wild cheers. Applause like a thunderstorm. Magnus is beaming. He has lipstick smeared across his lips like a wound. It should be grotesque, but on him it looks rakish. 

 

They look divine. The glittering black cloth, the halos of flame, the way that they smile like nothing can hurt them. Lucretia sighs. 

Taako leans on Lucretia’s shoulder. 

 

“Are you worried about them?” he asks. 

“No,” Lucretia lies, watching the playback, the minute by minute dissection of the tributes smiling and waving their way down the City Circle, to the Capitol’s training center. Magnus and Lup smile and wave, wreathed in flames. 

“Me neither,” Taako lies back, and reaches for Lucretia’s free hand, giving it a quick squeeze. 

 

They watch the playback, the minute by minute dissections, decision made by the unspoken agreement that they want to see every second of footage of Magnus and Lup. There’s dozens of cameras. Each of them captures different angles. Here is Lup laughing into Magnus’s shoulder. Here is Magnus sticking his tongue out at the camera. There’s commentators, exclaiming over Lup’s flame trick, the surprise of the glamour coming out Panem’s poorest district. “Looked almost like something District One would wear,” one woman says. 

 

“Look at them, impressed by a single measly cantrip,” Taako says with disgust. Lucretia snorts. She doesn’t disagree. 

 

Barry calls. Taako trades a few minutes of banter with him. Barry sounds alright. He watched the broadcasts too — he’s got the public networks feeding into the Starblaster, and he’s working on getting some of the private security cameras linked in. Taako gives him a minute-by-minute description of seeing Lup and Magnus. Barry thanks him. Lucretia sympathizes — this is the longest him and Lup have been separated, in a few cycles. Barry asks how they’re doing, and Lucretia says that they’re fine, and they are fine. This is a cushy setup, physically. Barry says okay, and for them to be careful. Taako says that they’re always careful, and hangs up on him. Lucretia yawns and pours herself another glass of wine. Taako wordlessly passes her his glass, and she fills it. They drain the bottle. 

 

Lucretia and Taako fall asleep like that, shoulder to shoulder on the couch, the light of the broadcast washing over their sleeping forms. Two wine glasses, an empty bottle. 

 

In the morning they will get up, put on their makeup, and go to work, ignoring the cricks in their necks, the ache in their shoulders. 


	2. Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The games are going to begin soon. The Capitol is tense.

Aevy walks into the training facility with a straight spine and a blank expression. Here is her plan: she’s not going to make any alliances. She’s not going to practice anything deadly. She’s going to run and hide and stay completely inconspicuous as soon as the game starts. She’s good at endurance, and she’s good at tracking, and she doesn’t think she would win a fight. She’ll live, if she’s lucky, if she’s ignored. At least that’s what she’s telling herself. There’s no point thinking too much about it: her number is up. 

The training facility is all cool blue-tinted steel and sleek lines. No windows. Stations with attendants in tracksuits line the walls, clean and neat. There are weapons-training stations, tracking stations, climbing stations, and in the center of the room, a recessed area for combat training. 

Aevy gives that a wide berth. There are already two boys brawling in the ring, the District Twelve boy and another boy that she thinks is from District Three. The District Twelve Boy looks happy to be fighting. Aevy shivers, but stills herself. 

The other tributes are scattered about the room, heads down at different stations. Her partner has made a beeline for the archery station. Jaene is a good hunter, Aevy remembers. 

She doesn’t follow him. Instead, she scans for an empty station. Edible plant and fungi identification has neither an attendant nor any tributes. Aevy walks over, and starts

It’s easy. She’s already fairly well versed in the typical flora and fauna of Panem, it’s just the more esoteric plants that are giving her trouble, the genetically modified oddities and things that thrive in extreme climates. But the arena could be a desert, it could be the tundra. Aevy focuses. 

“Hey kid,” someone says from behind her shoulder. “You know the ropes?” 

Aevy turns around, startled. The District Twelve girl is standing in front of her, with an unnervingly friendly expression. She has a new haircut, Aevy thinks dumbly. 

“Uh,” Aevy says. “You mean identifying plants?”

“Yeah,” the District Twelve girl says. “I’ve got  _ no  _ idea what any of this shit even is.” 

She says it like it doesn’t matter, that she’s fine exposing her weaknesses to the world, that she’s fine with asking for help from a stranger, from a competitor, from someone who might kill her or be killed by her. The girl is more dangerous than she is, Aevy knows that. 

“I can run you through them,” Aevy says anyway. The girl beams at her. 

“Hella excellent, much obliged, babe,” the girl says. “I’m Lup.” 

“Aevy,” Aevy says. 

She runs Lup through the edible plants, the inedible plants, the ones that that will kill and the others that will just incapacitate. Lup is a good student. She pays attention, she doesn’t disregard Aevy’s advice because Aevy is a few years younger than Lup. Aevy doesn’t want to like Lup, but the other girl is aggressively congenial. She hopes she can avoid Lup in the games.

A crash from the center of the room. Aevy jumps. The District Three boy is sprawled across the floor in the center of the floor, thrown down by the District Twelve boy. He holds out a hand for Three to stand. Three sneers, does not take it. Twelve frowns, and then looks up at the Tributes staring at him. 

“Any other takers?” the District Twelve boy calls. He flexes. He has the muscles to back it up, at least, Aevy thinks. 

“Maggie, stop baiting the kids!” Lup calls. 

“What, you wanna go, Lu?” Maggie says. “Want a rematch? Hand to hand, no weapons, no nothin’.” 

“Oh, babe, you know I’m going to wipe the floor with you,” Lup declares, and strides over to the pit, leaping over the low barrier, down into the ring. 

Aevy follows her. She wants to watch. Some of the other Tributes are also crowded around the combat area, assessing, curious. 

The boy, a sinewy hunk of muscle and flesh. The girl, whipcord skinny and roped with lean strength. They circle each other, both of them light on their feet. The fluorescent lights do nothing to disguise their vibrating energy. 

“Best two outta three?” Lup says, and Magnus nods. He charges. 

The thud of flesh against flesh. They fight like they’re dancing, Aevy thinks. Maggie hits, Lup dodges, Lup strikes, Maggie blocks. Every action met with reaction. They know each other, Aevy realizes, more than she knows Jaene, because this is the sort of fight you have when you know the other person’s hands like your own. 

Magnus pins Lup hard on the mat. 

“Gotcha,” he crows.

“I’m not used to having to play this straight,” Lup admits, and Aevy doesn’t know what she means. 

“I mean, go nuts once we’re in the arena,” Magnus says, letting her up. She springs back on her feet. 

“C’mon, big guy, lets go,” Lup says, and immediately runs to tackle him. 

Lup wins the next two bouts. 

They’re better than the Careers, Aevy realizes. It’s almost supernatural, she thinks, the way they seem to know just how to move, how to strike. No teenager should be able to fight like that. She looks at the other watchers. They’re coming to the same conclusions she is. 

Aevy feels a pang of sympathy for Lup and Maggie. They’re going to be targets, she bets. And it doesn’t matter how well you can fight, an arrow to the heart bleeds out every time. 

 

# 

 

Antony Crash runs a comb through his hair. It leaves a sparkling residue in his violet locks. Shiny is  _ in  _ this season, everything about the flash of light and glitter. The Capitol is always big on eye-catching, Crash thinks ruefully. It’s just the flavor of the month that changes. 

“On in five, Crash!” his PA calls from outside his dressing room. 

“Onnit, Hera,” he shouts back. “Ah, oh, ah,” he runs through a few quick vocalizations before straightening his tie and smiling at himself in the mirror. 

He’s done well for himself, he thinks, and he looks a treat. New synth-snakeskin suit, freshly dyed hair, smile that costs a million credits. It’s all in service of the screen, really. Crash has to look good to do his job. He winks, and walks out of his dressing room. He forgets to turn off the light. 

Crash saunters out onto the stage. They’re going with a streamlined set this year, just two chairs and a table, set against a neon background. It’s going to make for some killer TV, he thinks. Really gonna hone in on him and the tributes. Some  _ real  _ journalism. 

“Alright, we’re live in two,” the cameraman says. Crash nods. Easy as pie, he thinks.

 

#

 

Cella flutters around Lup and Magnus like an oversized hummingbird around a feeder. She brushes highlighter onto Lup’s cheekbones, outlines Magnus’s eyes in kohl, snaps at Tee and Zemma to adjust the last bits of their outfits. They’re done up in red and gold for their interviews. The crisp lines of Magnus’s red jacket, contrasted against the sheer mesh shirt he’s wearing, the swipe of gold on his eyelids, it all looks fierce. He looks like a young god. 

Lup, on the other hand, is in a filmy white dress that hangs off her shoulders, embroidered with rich gold at the bottom that trails upward into the white. It’s disconcertingly innocent, especially compared with her outfit from the Opening Ceremonies, the one that everyone is going to remember. The only color is her shock of ruddy hair, her red cupid’s bow of a lip. She looks luminous, otherworldly. 

“The look we’re going for is  _ immortality _ ,” Cella had told them at dinner last night. “That, and love.” Perce had cocked his head at that. 

“You sure that’s the smartest thing to do, Cella?” 

“Call me Cee, darling, how many times do I have to ask, and  _ yes. _ It’ll get them sponsors, honey,” Cee said, passing the plate of roasted meats to Lup. 

“It’ll make them targets,” Perce argued. 

“We can take ‘em,” Lup had interjected, placing three pieces of steak on her plate. 

“Kiddo,” Perce had said wearily. “I’ve told you a thousand times, that arrogance is gonna get you killed.” 

“Perce,” Lup had said. “This  _ is _ me holding back.” 

Now the two tributes are standing like statues, putting up with Tee and Zemma and Cella’s last minute touches with good grace. Perce stands by, giving them some last minute coaching. The half-lit backstage of Crash’s studio is filled with similar scenes. Each district, with their stylists and their mentors, getting hasty words of advice, puffs of hairspray, the instructions to get up there and smile, dammit. Your abilities for showmanship are going to keep you alive. These are the unspoken instructions. Pick a persona, stick to it. 

“Just wing it, honey,” Tee says to Lup as he carefully paints gold flecks on her face in the shape of a mask fanning out from her eyes. “You’re gonna do great.”  

The side of Lup’s face twitches, as if she wants to smile but is afraid to smudge her makeup. 

Tee’s developed quite the rapport with the tributes over the past few days. Cella’s proud of him. He’s got a knack for this sort of thing, she thinks. She’ll write him a stellar recommendation after this cycle of the Games are over. 

“You’d be better than I would, babe, at this whole showmanship thing,” Lup says. Tee winks at her, tucks a strand of hair into submission.

“My dude. They’re gonna love you — and besides! You don’t need ‘em.” 

Perce scoffs, walks forward to inspect his charges. Cella lets him – Perce always gets nervous before the interviews. District Twelve tributes have absolutely no media training, and the interviews sometimes make or break the games. 

“No, she definitely needs them. Both of you do,” Perce says, addressing both tributes. “Get up there, play up the relationship angle, the confidence thing. The two of you are likeable. Use that.”

“You got it, boss,” Magnus says, nodding. 

Cella pats Magnus’s head, and spritzes his hair with one final shower of gold-tint hairspray. Just enough to make him shimmer a bit in the spotlights. 

“Well, they’re not going to kick you out for your looks, that’s for sure.” She gives them both an air kiss on the cheek. “Now get out there, and kill them, kiddos.” 

 

#

 

“So, tell me about yourself,” Crash says, smiling. He’s always smiling during these. Nobody’s paying to see him frown. He tends to exaggerate his facial expressions for the cameras. The District Twelve male tribute — Magnus Burnsides, seventeen — beams back, like he’s excited to be here. Maybe he is. He doesn’t have a face made for deception, Crash thinks, and Crash knows how he’s going to play this one. 

“Well, I’m Magnus, but you can call me the Hammer,” the boy says.

“Is that what your friends call you?” Crash asks impishly. The boy laughs sheepishly. 

“It’s what I want them to call me!” Crash laughs with him. 

“Well, we’re all friends here, aren’t we,” he asks the crowd, and some voices call out ‘Yes!’ Crash turns back to Magnus. 

“Alright then,  _ The Hammer _ ,” he says with a wink. “Now, let’s get down to business,” Crash says, mock serious. The boy nods solemnly back, the illusion broken by the smile playing at the corner of his lip. “Tell me, was that kiss planned?” 

The smile breaks its way across the boy’s face. He fidgets, shrugs. 

“Well, that’d be giving it away,” he says. “I love Lup, so,” he trails off, implying more than he could have said. “She’s one of the most important people in my life.” 

“Who else is important to you?” Crash asks. 

“My family,” the boy says promptly. “That’s really why I’m here. Because I need to do this for them.” 

“Winning certainly will set you up for life,” Crash nods. 

“And I couldn’t let Lup come here alone,” the boy continues, his voice quieter, less bombastic. The audience  _ awws. _

“Well of course not,” Crash says sympathetically. “You love her.” 

The boy nods earnestly. 

“I do,” he says. “She’s one of the best, kindest people I know.” 

“She sounds wonderful,” Crash says. “But we’re here to talk about  _ you.”  _

The rest of the interview continues apace. Magnus is a lovely subject, Crash thinks. Good natured, friendly. A delight to talk with. Crash sends him offstage just as the District Twelve girl is walking on, and the two teens clasp lingering hands as Lup walks up to center stage. A chorus of  _ awws.  _ Crash rises to meet her. Chivalry make for good TV. 

“And so, the lady of the moment! I must say, you’re looking far less charred than one would expect. You look lovely, my dear,” Crash says, pressing a kiss to Lup’s hand. She breaks into a grin.

“So do you, babe,” she says. “Love the hair.” Crash beams. 

“Thank you! Grew it myself. But we’re not here to talk about me, we’re here to talk about  _ you _ .” They sit down at the chairs, and the girl leans forward, still smiling. 

“Well, what do you want to know?” Crash matches her posture. 

“Now. The fire thing, during the Ceremonies,” Crash asks, pitching his voice teasing, intimate. “How on earth did you do that?” 

Lup winks. “Well, Crash, cha’girl’s gotta keep some secrets.” Crash laughs, and the audience laughs with him. 

 

#

 

Usually, the District Twelve tributes are something of a joke. This year, though, Hamish is going to be paying attention. He’s curious about how this is going to play out. He’s heard that this year, the tributes are… interesting. Hamish could use a little bit of entertainment in his life. 

He lounges back in his seat. The District Twelve boy should be coming in soon. Hamish doesn’t remember his name — he never bothers to learn any of them, until the actual broadcasts start. What’s the point? He sees them for five minutes in person, and then they just become pixels on a screen. Hamish’s daughter keeps up with the games though. She’s around that age — she’s starting middle school next year, and she’s been keeping up with all the press. Hamish and his wife let Viktoria stay up to watch the all the commentary on the opening ceremonies, even.

According to Ria, the District Twelve boy is “really hot,” and the District Seven boy is “su-uper dreamy,” and “Daddy, can you  _ please  _ buy sponsor gifts for them?  _ Please! _ ” Hamish had chuckled and patted Ria on the shoulder and said that “If they’re still in the running, after the Bloodbath, then maybe, if you get all A’s on your report card.” Ria had pouted, but Hamish thought he was being reasonable. 

The door opens. The District Twelve boy, clad in the typical training clothes, walks through. He waves at Hamish and the others watching, though he doesn’t smile. Not the type to pander, then. 

“Well, show us what you’ve got,” Redrick says from Hamish’s right, waving a hand languidly.

The boy nods, and walks up to the weapons rack. He stops in front of an axe nearly as tall as he is. 

“No way he can pick that up,” Sharla murmurs, on Hamish’s other side. He stifles a laugh. 

The boy picks up the axe effortlessly. Hamish raises an eyebrow. The boy runs through a set of forms. That’s mildly impressive. The boy’s muscles strain with the effort. He slows his blade and walks over to the set of wooden poles that they had brought in for demonstrations. He slices through them. Hamish doesn’t know anything about fighting, but he can tell that the boy is very good. 

Redrick snorts, and turns to Hamish. “Just another brawler,” he remarks, and refills his glass. The conversation around him restarts, first soft, and then growing louder. 

The boy’s eyes narrow. He puts the axe down, dropping it with a dull clang. Hamish glances down, just in time to see the boy pick up a lance, and hurl it toward him. Hamish swears and ducks out of the way. Screams. Spilled wine and dishes. 

The lance crashes against the plexiglass screen separating the judges from the tributes. It bounces effortlessly off Hamish blinks, heart hammering staccato. 

The boy had calibrated his throw to be harmless. The boy scowls at them. Hamish stares dumbly back. 

“Thank you,” the boy says. He walks away, and out of the room. 

 

#

 

Lucretia picks up wine on her way home from work. They’ve finalized the last bits of the arena, up in the Gamemakers station. She knows exactly where the Light is going to be, now. it’s a good feeling, learning something useful. It feels like sunrise after a long night. It feels like they’re finally getting somewhere. 

“I’m back,” Lucretia says as she walks through the apartment door. “I brought wine.” 

“Oh sweet,” Taako says, not looking up from where he’s cooking dinner. He’s using two mage hands to compensate for not having someone else in the kitchen with him. The apartment’s blinds are drawn. “What’s the occasion, Luce?” 

“I know where the Light is, now,” she says smugly. “Booyah.” Taako looks up, naked surprise, followed by delight. He conjures up a third mage hand to give her a spectral high-five. She slaps it victoriously. 

“Crushed it,” he says. “Well fuckin’ done, my guy.” 

“Yeah, I know I’m awesome,” Lucretia says. “Okay if I call Barry?” 

Taako nods, and stirs the stuff in the pan. It smells wonderful. 

“Hell yeah, get Barold on the line. Oh, but turn on the TV, ‘cause they’re going to be showin’ scores soon.” 

“Okay,” Lucretia says, and goes to get their shared stone of farspeech – the fancy one, with the holographic illusion magic that Davenport had added. 

Barry picks up on the first ring. 

“Uh, what’s up, guys?” he asks. There’s the sound of typing, and it sounds like Barry’s a little preoccupied. 

“I found out where the Light is going to be,” Lucretia says, not bothering with pleasantries. 

“Hi Barold!” Taako calls from the stove. 

“Hi Taako — wait, you learned where the Light is going to be?” 

“Mmhmm,” Lucretia says. “Quadrant 64. Let Maggie and Lu know, please? Also, it’s a forest terrain, and they’re not going to want to bother with going for the Cornucopia – but that’s sort of their call.” 

“Gotcha,” Barry says, and the sounds of typing increase. “I’ll let them know. Good work, Creesh.” 

“Lu-uce,” Taako whines. “Turn on the television, Lucy, I wanna see the scores.” 

“For fucks sake, Taako,” Lucretia says mildly, and walks over to pick up the remote. She turns on the screen, and Antony Crash’s dulcet tones fill the room. 

“ — and the scores for Districts Six and Seven are coming in now, right after the break —”

Lucretia turns back to the stone of farspeech. 

“Anything for us?” she asks. 

“Not at the moment,” Barry says. “Oh, but tomorrow, Merle’s gonna be dropping off a chip that I want you to plug into the Gamemakers system, okay?” 

“Sure,” Lucretia says. 

“Not getting stir-crazy on the ship, are you, Barry?” Taako asks, seemingly flip. Barry makes an “eh” sort of noise. 

“It’s, uh, quiet,” he says. “Kinda miss having you guys around, actually.” 

“Aw, you mi-iss us?” Taako teases. 

“Fuck off,” Barry laughs. “I’ll have you —” 

“Taako,” Lucretia cuts Barry off, and Taako turns away from the burner. 

“What’s up, Luce?” 

She points at the screen. On it, commentators laugh, and Antony Crash talks to a few of the gamemakers. DISTRICT TWELVE is written in large letters behind them on a shimmering screen. 

“What’s happening?” Barry asks. 

“They’re broadcasting the scores, flip to channel 7, we’ll call you back later,” Lucretia says absently and hangs up. On screen, they’re showing playback of Lup and Magnus. Lup is doing something fancy with a staff. Magnus slices through tree-trunks with a large and deadly-looking axe. 

“Any moment now,” Lucretia murmurs. It’s good to see them, even if only on the screen. The scene skips back to the commentators. DISTRICT TWELVE has been replaced by portraits of Magnus and Lup, with places for their scores to go underneath. Magnus looks so strange without his beard and sideburns. It still unsettles her. Lup looks the same as she always does — young, radiant.

“— and without further ado, the District Twelve scores,” Crash says cheerily, snapping his fingers. 

Under Lup’s portrait — 10. Magnus’s portrait — 12. Lucretia and Taako glance at each other. She sees concern written on his face. 

“Score’s are outta 12, right?” Taako says. “So that’s good. They did good. Hell yeah, of course they did.” 

“He shouldn’t have scored that high,” Lucretia says. “Nobody ever scores that high.” 

  
  


# 

 

The tributes are allowed one escort other than the security guards, to take them to the transports that will carry them to the undisclosed location that the arena is in. Tee had asked Cella if he could be Lup’s escort, and she had said, “Sure, honey,” and then had touched Tee’s hair softly and said “Don’t get too attached, Tee. She’s a lovely girl, but she’s only gotta one-in-twenty-four chance. And she’s taken, baby.” 

“Not like that! Oh my gods, not like that!  _ Deffo, not like that! _ ” Tee had yelped, his mask-mouth going jittery with surprise. “Just for support!” 

“Teens!” Cella had said, rolling her eyes and laughing. “Okay, I’d normally do it, but I think she’d appreciate you being there.” 

“Of course she will,” Tee says. “I’m  _me._ Thanks, Cee.” 

“Don’t mention it, Tee,” Cella had said. “You did good work this year.” 

“Thanks,” Tee had said again, and his mask had shown a big smile. 

 

#

 

VIDEO FEED, CAMERA 351, TRIBUTE TRAINING FACILITY

The stylist’s assistant walks next to the tribute. He’s wearing a neon jumpsuit and heels. She’s in a high-tech grey top and bottom, with a shapeless jacket and hood. They walk arm in arm. Their builds are very similar, despite the difference in clothing. 

They don’t speak as they walk. At the end of the corridor, there is a glass tube elevator that will take the tribute to the airfield, to be airlifted into the arena. The stylist’s assistant will not go with her. 

She pauses at the end of the corridor, turning to face the stylist’s assistant. He scratches his neck, puts a hand on her shoulder. His glamour-glass mask shows a smile tilted wistful. 

“I love you, dipshit. Don’t get your ass blasted,” the stylist’s assistant says. 

“Gross,” the tribute says, making a face. “I’ll be fine. I love you too.” 

The way he embraces her. The way she grips the back of his shirt. 

If one were to zoom in on his face, her ear, one would notice that he whispers something, too softly to be heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might stick up liner notes later today — it'll be on Iz's tumblr and linked here. thanks for reading! get ready for SOME SHIT goin' down!

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the taz/hunger games mashup, kids. 
> 
> check us at [anonymousalchemist](http://anonymousalchemist.tumblr.com/) and [blue-mood-blue](http://blue-mood-blue.tumblr.com/) if ya wanna talk taz fic/meta! 
> 
> liner notes [here!](http://anonymousalchemist.tumblr.com/post/167185942282/i-hold-with-those-who-favor-fire-liner-notes)


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